Mayor Charles P. Twarld was feeling pretty good going into this day. He had spent a relaxing time at one of Hellwaukee’s most bucolic and comfortable locales of the Monastery Farmlands with Bernie and one of his assassins, Brother Patrick, who told him he would bring them back to the group when they were done with some business. He didn’t know what the business was and he didn’t particularly care. He lazed in his bliss, ate some apples, and told passers-by, “I’m the mayor, you know.” They didn’t care too much and he didn’t either.
Patrick informed him that he would be taking him to The Fighting Phil Center to discuss an arrangement with them that would ensure the Phils joined the battle to assassinate Matthew Crawley, and this pleased him. As long as Eugene Gumble was president of the Phils, the Mayor was untouchable. Gumble was, after all, a former and unsuccessful political rival. Once upon a time they had run against each other in the election for Mayor. It was a close one, but Gumble’s erratic tendencies, twitchiness and radical views lost it for him. The Waltzers might have destroyed some ballots as well in favor of their candidate, but Twarld firmly believed in the creed that knowing less is best.
Shamed, Gumble retreated with his tail between his legs to the old Greyhound Station once again and retook the reins of The Fighting Phils with a vengeance. It was a bitter, blistering campaign in which Twarld had described Gumble as a ball of lightning in clown makeup. Gumble called him a bumbling coward who would pay. In the end, Twarld had bested him, he thought. It was because of the mayor, of course, that the Phils reigned so prevalently. The Mayor allowed them to do what they did without little interference out of a sort of sense of pity. Gumble took the loss hard, but Twarld told him, man-to-man and away from prying eyes, that he’d be better off as President of The Fighting Phils anyway and vowed to keep his nose out of their affairs. They buried the hatchet, he thought. The Phils knew who the he was and what he was, he thought.
So it came as a pleasant surprise that he’d be meeting his old adversary again. Time was a healer, after all. But Twarld swore to follow the principle that he subscribed to that won him the election – “if you walk without rhythm, you won’t attract the worm.” This was one of his favorite quotes from the philosopher of a bygone era known as Fatboy Slim. It meant he needed his swagger and his confidence. He’d put it on full display as always in front of Gumble to make sure he still remembered full well who won the election. He dressed with better rhythm than Gumble anyway. A conservative plaid vest was more respectable than Gumble’s old barber-shop quartet getup.
So he went with Patrick with a pop in his step and eventually saw in the distance one of the Fighting Phil senior members known as Terry guarding the door as always. He put on a knowing smile and approached him.
“Terry, my boy,” he began, putting his arm around his shoulders. “How have you been, all out here alone in the cold?”
“This mothafucka!” Terry laughed, affectionately. Oh, it was good to be the mayor.
He took the lead in front of his assassins, Klaus, Lelo and Marcus, when he approached Gumble when let inside. Gumble was, as always, sitting at his circular lunch-table in his big white “office.” He was smoking a hand-rolled cigarette that he let hang loosely from his mouth when he saw Twarld again. He involuntarily winced but put on a smile.
“Charlie!” he blurted. “Still wearing the same sweater vest!”
They made small talk but once Gumble segued into the politics of yore, Twarld chided him.
“Eugene, no need to dwell on petty grudges!” he chirped.
“Sorry, sorry, yeah, sorry. You know me! Same old Gumble! Can’t let a grudge go! Hahahahah!”
Twarld smirked slimily and nodded his head. Gumble then told them to produce the results. In an instant, Klaus, who had been carrying something large under his duster, plopped a headless corpse on the ground. It landed with a splat and Twarld gagged.
Unexpected, but all part of the plan, he thought. It made sense, he was sure. It was a necessary evil. Just grin and ignore it. But it was hard. The body was slathered in blood and mayonnaise at the neck. Delighted, Gumble reverted into a deranged little boy and began to hit it on the knees with his hammer, cracking dead bone and generating more blood flow. This was what he lived for. A dead Waltzer.
He applauded them and after coming to an understanding about why Twarld was flanked by a blatant Waltzer guard, agreed to take them to his TFP Amtrak train, which was the agreement. A dead Waltzer meant a trip to Madison where they would meet Bob Vister. Simple.
He took them gleefully to the last car on the train, which was rusty and decked out with orange paint and decorated with hand-drawn Phils emblems. He pried the door open with his hammer and let them in.
Before walking to the front of the train to start it on its journey, Gumble turned around and told the Mayor how pleased he was to see him again. The mayor took a seat and relaxed again. Next stop, Madison.
Before long, Gumble came on the P.A. system.
“A fair warning, you all! There’s, there’s, we have a few other riders on this train today. One you’ll meet is named Curtis. He’s a real gorilla.”
Twarld lightly chuckled. Probably another one of the delightful Phil guards, sassy of the Terry variety.
The train started moving and in the glass of the door, Twarld spied some shady bodies lying on the floor. He looked closer and saw that they were Waltzers, seemingly emaciated from days of imprisonment on a locked train car.
Twarld grew immediately uneasy. Suddenly, the idea of describing somebody as a gorilla quickly grew disturbing, as he had remembered the rumors he had heard that there was a feral gorilla from the zoo named Curtis. He thought it was just a rumor. When he saw a giant primate silhouette rise from nothing, he knew Gumble had been being cheekily literal.
There was a wild gorilla on this train. An actual, bona-fide gorilla. And they were trapped. The train chugged along at too fast a speed to ever escape.
The mayor heard a howl and clenched his anus in fear and began to sweat profusely. This was not a cordial trip. This was going to be a battle for his life.
“What’s the big idea with a gorilla, Eugene?! What is this?” Twarld blubbered, feeling betrayed.
“I said it already, Twarld! I keep a grudge!” Gumble’s voice had grown gravelly and tainted by years of bitter shame. “This ball of lightning with clown makeup keeps a grudge!”
“But we are friends! I work with you!” Twarld protested fruitlessly.
“When you work with everybody, Twarld, you work with nobody!”
Twarld looked around doggedly, suddenly petrified. He struggled to keep his urine in.
“Again, enjoy your ride! And please enjoy this music!”
There was a mechanical cut-off to Gumble’s voice and a pleasing song began to play. Everybody was now terrified of the impending gorilla and the emaciated Waltzers. The song was “From This Moment On” by some ancient musician known as Ella Fitzgerald. It played happily, breezily, utterly unaware that it would be the unconventional soundtrack to a bloodbath.
Patrick informed him that he would be taking him to The Fighting Phil Center to discuss an arrangement with them that would ensure the Phils joined the battle to assassinate Matthew Crawley, and this pleased him. As long as Eugene Gumble was president of the Phils, the Mayor was untouchable. Gumble was, after all, a former and unsuccessful political rival. Once upon a time they had run against each other in the election for Mayor. It was a close one, but Gumble’s erratic tendencies, twitchiness and radical views lost it for him. The Waltzers might have destroyed some ballots as well in favor of their candidate, but Twarld firmly believed in the creed that knowing less is best.
Shamed, Gumble retreated with his tail between his legs to the old Greyhound Station once again and retook the reins of The Fighting Phils with a vengeance. It was a bitter, blistering campaign in which Twarld had described Gumble as a ball of lightning in clown makeup. Gumble called him a bumbling coward who would pay. In the end, Twarld had bested him, he thought. It was because of the mayor, of course, that the Phils reigned so prevalently. The Mayor allowed them to do what they did without little interference out of a sort of sense of pity. Gumble took the loss hard, but Twarld told him, man-to-man and away from prying eyes, that he’d be better off as President of The Fighting Phils anyway and vowed to keep his nose out of their affairs. They buried the hatchet, he thought. The Phils knew who the he was and what he was, he thought.
So it came as a pleasant surprise that he’d be meeting his old adversary again. Time was a healer, after all. But Twarld swore to follow the principle that he subscribed to that won him the election – “if you walk without rhythm, you won’t attract the worm.” This was one of his favorite quotes from the philosopher of a bygone era known as Fatboy Slim. It meant he needed his swagger and his confidence. He’d put it on full display as always in front of Gumble to make sure he still remembered full well who won the election. He dressed with better rhythm than Gumble anyway. A conservative plaid vest was more respectable than Gumble’s old barber-shop quartet getup.
So he went with Patrick with a pop in his step and eventually saw in the distance one of the Fighting Phil senior members known as Terry guarding the door as always. He put on a knowing smile and approached him.
“Terry, my boy,” he began, putting his arm around his shoulders. “How have you been, all out here alone in the cold?”
“This mothafucka!” Terry laughed, affectionately. Oh, it was good to be the mayor.
He took the lead in front of his assassins, Klaus, Lelo and Marcus, when he approached Gumble when let inside. Gumble was, as always, sitting at his circular lunch-table in his big white “office.” He was smoking a hand-rolled cigarette that he let hang loosely from his mouth when he saw Twarld again. He involuntarily winced but put on a smile.
“Charlie!” he blurted. “Still wearing the same sweater vest!”
They made small talk but once Gumble segued into the politics of yore, Twarld chided him.
“Eugene, no need to dwell on petty grudges!” he chirped.
“Sorry, sorry, yeah, sorry. You know me! Same old Gumble! Can’t let a grudge go! Hahahahah!”
Twarld smirked slimily and nodded his head. Gumble then told them to produce the results. In an instant, Klaus, who had been carrying something large under his duster, plopped a headless corpse on the ground. It landed with a splat and Twarld gagged.
Unexpected, but all part of the plan, he thought. It made sense, he was sure. It was a necessary evil. Just grin and ignore it. But it was hard. The body was slathered in blood and mayonnaise at the neck. Delighted, Gumble reverted into a deranged little boy and began to hit it on the knees with his hammer, cracking dead bone and generating more blood flow. This was what he lived for. A dead Waltzer.
He applauded them and after coming to an understanding about why Twarld was flanked by a blatant Waltzer guard, agreed to take them to his TFP Amtrak train, which was the agreement. A dead Waltzer meant a trip to Madison where they would meet Bob Vister. Simple.
He took them gleefully to the last car on the train, which was rusty and decked out with orange paint and decorated with hand-drawn Phils emblems. He pried the door open with his hammer and let them in.
Before walking to the front of the train to start it on its journey, Gumble turned around and told the Mayor how pleased he was to see him again. The mayor took a seat and relaxed again. Next stop, Madison.
Before long, Gumble came on the P.A. system.
“A fair warning, you all! There’s, there’s, we have a few other riders on this train today. One you’ll meet is named Curtis. He’s a real gorilla.”
Twarld lightly chuckled. Probably another one of the delightful Phil guards, sassy of the Terry variety.
The train started moving and in the glass of the door, Twarld spied some shady bodies lying on the floor. He looked closer and saw that they were Waltzers, seemingly emaciated from days of imprisonment on a locked train car.
Twarld grew immediately uneasy. Suddenly, the idea of describing somebody as a gorilla quickly grew disturbing, as he had remembered the rumors he had heard that there was a feral gorilla from the zoo named Curtis. He thought it was just a rumor. When he saw a giant primate silhouette rise from nothing, he knew Gumble had been being cheekily literal.
There was a wild gorilla on this train. An actual, bona-fide gorilla. And they were trapped. The train chugged along at too fast a speed to ever escape.
The mayor heard a howl and clenched his anus in fear and began to sweat profusely. This was not a cordial trip. This was going to be a battle for his life.
“What’s the big idea with a gorilla, Eugene?! What is this?” Twarld blubbered, feeling betrayed.
“I said it already, Twarld! I keep a grudge!” Gumble’s voice had grown gravelly and tainted by years of bitter shame. “This ball of lightning with clown makeup keeps a grudge!”
“But we are friends! I work with you!” Twarld protested fruitlessly.
“When you work with everybody, Twarld, you work with nobody!”
Twarld looked around doggedly, suddenly petrified. He struggled to keep his urine in.
“Again, enjoy your ride! And please enjoy this music!”
There was a mechanical cut-off to Gumble’s voice and a pleasing song began to play. Everybody was now terrified of the impending gorilla and the emaciated Waltzers. The song was “From This Moment On” by some ancient musician known as Ella Fitzgerald. It played happily, breezily, utterly unaware that it would be the unconventional soundtrack to a bloodbath.